


Darning Evidence

by SylvanWitch



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Finds Out About Merlin’s Magic (Merlin), Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-29 00:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16733151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: Arthur banishes Merlin from Camelot when he discovers Merlin's most dangerous secret.  Arthur is bad at banishment.





	Darning Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "Drawing it out."
> 
> This is set sometime in season *handwaves*.

There was no point in drawing it out.  He was leaving.  He had no choice.  And prolonging the matter would only make things more difficult for everyone, so Merlin packed his few possessions, left a note for Gaius, and crept from his home like a fugitive.

 

He had considered walking, but that was foolish, and despite not wanting to be beholden to Camelot for anything, Merlin had resigned himself to the need for a horse.  It was a simple thing to put the hostler and the stable-boy to sleep and simpler still to saddle the horse—despite Arthur’s always going on about his incompetence, Merlin was actually quite good with animals. 

 

And with buckles and cinches and things.  Good enough to keep _him_ in armor, the arrogant git.

 

He walked the horse out the door of the stable that opened into a narrow lane between the buildings and the great wall of the city, and when he came to the western gate, he said, “I’m on an errand for the prince,” and no one looked twice at him.

 

Wasn’t he always wandering about at strange hours on stranger errands?

 

No more.

 

Maybe he’d hoped that Arthur would guess his intention and meet him at the stable.  Maybe he’d even imagined, in his more feverish dreams, that Arthur would stop him by force, pushing him into an empty stall, hard up against the boards, and driving a knee between his thighs.

 

Maybe in the dream, Arthur breathed Merlin’s name over his lips before biting him where his neck joined his shoulder.

 

Maybe Merlin’s legs trembled until Arthur relented, lowering them both into the clean, sweet straw.

 

But that’s as far as Merlin had ever let himself get with the vision of things he could never have.  He told himself he wasn’t disappointed to be on this road at midnight, alone in the cold with only a plain brown mare for company.

 

Merlin was good at telling himself things that weren’t strictly true.

 

If only he’d kept to that policy with Arthur.

 

****

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

Merlin hadn’t expected Arthur back so soon.  Indeed, the way Sir Effingen’s daughter had been simpering at him and flashing her…dimples…Merlin had been quite sure not to expect the prince back at all that evening.

 

So he’d taken it as an opportunity to catch up on his darning—was it his fault Arthur was careless of his linens?

 

Of course, he’d had no intention of sewing the shifts and stockings and shirts himself.  The needle had been flashing merrily in the chair beside the fire, and Merlin had been leaning in the window recess, looking out on the silver world far below, all its blemishes erased at this distance.

 

He might have gotten away with it—he’d dropped the enchantment at Arthur’s first word, the magic startled right out of him.

 

Except that Arthur had already noticed the neatly piled, newly repaired clothes on the table, and he had to know that there was no way Merlin had done all that work in such a short time.

 

“Are you making one of the serving girls do the darning for you?”

 

Merlin smirked privately but gave Arthur his very public “confused” expression, which, as usual, caused _Arthur’s_ expression to darken from irritation to exasperation.

 

“Sure,” he said, a little too quickly and far too casually.  “I mean, she offered.  She…”  he flailed about for a plausible excuse “…she fancies you!”

 

“Oh?”  Arthur went from exasperated to intrigued in seconds.  Merlin smirked privately to himself again; thank gods his prince was predictable.

 

“Y-yes,” Merlin answered, drawing it out.  Fabricating on the fly should’ve been second nature to him by now, what with the number of times he’d had to pretend not to have done magic to save Arthur and/or the kingdom.  Still, he stammered through some ridiculous explanation about the girl being very shy and not wanting Arthur to notice her but wanting to do something nice for him because, well, that’s what people wanted to do for their prince, wasn’t it?

 

“Present company obviously excluded,” Arthur needled.

 

Merlin tried to look chagrined, but he felt it came off a little arch.  ( _So, so predictable_.)

 

“So, I’ll just finish this one myself, then, and…”  He’d almost made it to the door when Arthur said, “Wait.”

 

Merlin stopped and turned slowly.

 

“What’s this maiden’s name?”

 

“Uh…”

 

An eyebrow went up, the irritation one.

 

Merlin, forgetting the needle, stabbed himself and out of his mouth came, “Guinefffffarrah.”

 

Arthur’s brow wrinkled.  “I don’t think I’ve heard of her.”

 

“She’s Welsh,” Merlin said, as if that explained anything.

 

Apparently, it did, at least for Arthur, who was dismissing Merlin with a wave of his hand.

 

The next day, Merlin was minding his own—and the prince’s—business, serving him at table, when a timid knock at the door heralded the arrival of a petite, doe-eyed brunette who dropped into a breathless curtsey and cut Arthur a series of bashful looks from beneath her ridiculously long eyelashes.

  
Merlin felt that the eyelashes were really too much.

 

Arthur had eyes for another part of her anatomy, which were also rather too much.

 

Merlin, rolling his eyes to himself, said, “Can I help you?” even as Arthur said, “What’s your name?’

 

“Guineffara, my lord,” she answered, and Merlin dropped the tray he’d been carrying, earning him an ear-scorching bollocksing and a pointed invitation to leave the room.

 

He didn’t want to leave, not while she was in there, but Arthur was casting daggers with his eyes, and Merlin knew that short of knocking him unconscious with a levitated book or something, he wasn’t going to change Arthur’s position on the matter.

  
He had a feeling that Guineffara would be changing Arthur’s position, however, and he didn’t like it one bit.

 

For one thing, she didn’t exist, which was bad enough, but for another, there was no way she could be as ardent a lover as Merlin.

 

It was pretty much that second thought that made Merlin realize the precarious position he’d put himself in.  He… _desired_ …Prince Arthur.

 

And instead of acting on that desire, he’d inadvertently summoned a sexy maid from somewhere who was even now probably explaining the finer points of darning to Arthur by undoing the laces of his shirt.

 

Merlin told himself it was none of his business.

 

Merlin told himself he was perfectly content to be Arthur’s faithful and (mostly) hard-working servant.

 

Merlin told himself to get on with his work of the day.

 

Merlin’s self told him to shove off.

 

Which is how he found himself lurking in the hallway outside the prince’s quarters not a half-hour later, having availed himself of some of Gaius’ herb store and a quick look at one of his magic books.

 

He was pretty sure the potion he’d made would reverse any spell she may have cast on Arthur and have the fun bonus of making her go poof. 

 

As it turned out, it left a stinking green mess on Arthur’s favorite tunic and reduced Guineffara to a pile of steaming goo.

 

That was the sort of thing one couldn’t just overlook, particularly if one were prince of a realm where magic was forbidden and most particularly if said thing had been done right in front of him by the servant who had made a reputation of coming up with ridiculous excuses for things that, in the hindsight afforded by a gooey pile of ex-Welsh maid, were obviously caused by magic.

 

The magic that he, the servant, obviously had.

 

The row that followed was of the sort that bards enjoy describing in painstaking, gory detail.

 

It ended when Merlin was flung from Arthur’s rooms with an order to leave the kingdom and never return.

 

“You have until sunrise on the morrow, and then I turn you over to the guards.”

 

At first, he’d been so angry at Arthur’s predictably bull-headed, self-centered, arrogant reaction that he’d been almost okay with leaving.  
  


  
Then he’d been determined to stay at all costs.  
  


  
Then he’d seen Gaius bent over a steaming pot of something-or-other and realized it wasn’t just himself he had to worry about.

 

Finally, he’d resigned himself to going.

 

So he’d gone.

 

And here he was, alone on the road with only a plain brown mare and the rapidly approaching hoofbeats of a pursuing rider for company.

 

The rider, naturally, was Arthur.  Because if there was anything more certain in Merlin’s life than that he’d eventually be burned at the stake for sorcery, it was that Arthur would be the cause of that burning.

 

“What’re you doing?” Arthur asked, in almost precisely the same tone he’d used when he’d caught Merlin “darning” his linens.

 

“Leaving,” Merlin answered, and if his tone clearly suggested that Arthur was a complete idiot for not recognizing the signs—horse, dark of night, modest pack slung behind the saddle—well, then, no one could blame anyone but Arthur for that.

 

“No, you’re not.”  He said it like it was a command handed down by someone who would rule by divine right someday.  Like no one could resist him when he used that voice.

 

Merlin was voice-proof, however, so he said: “What, you’re that eager to burn me alive?”

 

“Is that Sir Effingen’s horse?” 

 

Honestly, the man’s focus when it came to women, weapons, and horseflesh was staggering.  When it came to other things—like, say, his servant’s life hanging in the balance—not so much.

 

“Focus!” Merlin said, losing what was left of his frayed temper.  He didn’t often with Arthur.  It didn’t do any good, of course, and also there was the fact that Arthur was his prince (and his destiny).  The latter didn’t have as much weight as the former, actually, but beggars, choosers, et cetera.

 

“You can be jailed for stealing another man’s horse,” Arthur continued, and he used that tone he got when he was trying to tell Merlin something without saying it out loud but Merlin was being especially thick and either babbling so that he didn’t notice the subtlety or too busy causing chaos (or apologizing—insincerely—for it) that he didn’t hear it at all.

 

This time, though, despite being distracted by how red Arthur’s lips were—probably chapped from riding at a gallop through the cold, should get some unguent for that, maybe something that had mint in it, so his lips would be cool and make Merlin’s tingle when they kissed…

 

“Merlin!”

 

That snapped him back to the present.  Sir Effingen’s mare shifted on her haunches, settling in for a good, long snooze.

 

Arthur’s horse sidled up to Merlin’s until Arthur’s leg brushed his own.  Merlin shivered.

 

Very carefully, looking Merlin directly in the eye, Arthur said, “You can be jailed for stealing another man’s horse.”

 

“Oh,” Merlin said, faintly.  Then, “Oh!” as Arthur’s meaning set in. 

 

“You really are the most useless servant,” Arthur continued, as though they were squabbling over Merlin’s care of his armor.  Except that Arthur didn’t usually lean over to kiss Merlin when he was doing that, but Arthur was definitely leaning, and yes, yes, those were his lips—dry and a bit chapped but still brilliant.

 

Merlin, when he was able to speak again, managed a strangled, “We should move off the road,” and Arthur grabbed the mare’s rein and signaled his own steed with his knee, and they were soon enough in the near-dark beneath the trees, where Arthur leapt spryly from his horse and helped Merlin down with rather more full body contact than was strictly necessary, and then drop-tied the horses and grabbed Merlin quite deliberately and shoved him against the nearest available tree and began kissing the breath out of him.

 

When Arthur let up for an instant, Merlin sucked in a huge breath, only to choke on it when Arthur began sucking on Merlin’s neck.  Merlin was unable to catch up to the progress of it all and found himself scrabbling weakly at Arthur’s shoulders and moaning shamelessly, hips making minute little circles, seeking more purchase against Arthur’s leg, which was firmly wedged between his two.

 

This was just like the stable fantasy, except there was no sweet hay, no heat from the assembled horseflesh to keep them warm as Arthur stopped his torment of Merlin’s neck long enough to pull his right glove off with his teeth, which was far hotter than it had any right to be, and then he was plunging that hand—COLD! Merlin had time to note—down Merlin’s loosened trousers—and when that had happened, he had no idea, nor did he care—to wrap around Merlin’s cock and give an experimental tug.

 

If the result he was seeking was Merlin’s total begging surrender, Arthur must have been right pleased.

 

Merlin shook helplessly, thrusting into Arthur’s touch, head thrown back, mouth wide and panting, Arthur’s name and “Please!” and “Oh, gods, Arthur, please!” and all sorts of other completely undignified things pouring out of them.

 

“God, you’re gorgeous when you beg,” Arthur said just before fastening his sharp, white teeth around Merlin’s lower lip and biting him just hard enough to sting.

 

Merlin came in a spectacular white-out of shouting and jizz.  He probably would have fallen down had Arthur not helped him gently to his knees, an action the relevance of which became apparent as soon as Merlin was able to pry his eyes open and gather the wherewithal to see Arthur’s perfect—because of course it was, life really was unfair, the giant pillock—cock bobbing hard and red scant inches from Merlin’s face.

 

He’d barely recovered coordination, but Merlin just had to touch, to weigh the heavy, silk sacks and run the velvet hard length of him through his fingers.

 

It was Arthur’s turn to moan, which he did quite brilliantly, and then his big hand was on the back of Merlin’s head, urging but not insisting, and Merlin was opening his mouth not to speak, for a change, and things went fuzzy again as he tasted Arthur’s musky scent on the back of his tongue and felt more than heard him moan again as he began to suck in earnest, holding Arthur with one hand to keep from being choked and running his tongue around the head inside its sheath, which he pushed back with said tongue, earning a chest-shaking groan from Arthur, who also may have breathed, “God, Merlin, yes,” at the end there.

 

Merlin flattened his tongue hard along the bottom of Arthur’s cock, pressing up, and took him in as far as he could and hummed a few low notes of pleasure and Arthur’s hand clenched in Merlin’s hair and he came in hot, bitter spurts, all of which Merlin swallowed happily, and then said, “Please,” which Merlin took to mean stop, so he did.

 

Arthur pulled Merlin’s face against his belly, and Merlin rested there, smelling Arthur’s sex and feeling a renewed tingling in his own balls, a promise of good things yet to come, and Arthur said, “Come home,” and Merlin breathed, “Yes,” which meant, _I am already home_ , and Arthur’s hand petted Merlin’s hair to say, _As am I_.

 

And then one of the horses farted and Arthur’s chuckle resonated through Merlin’s cheek, and his prince said, “I’m cold.  Stop lollygagging down there on your knees and dress me,” and Merlin leaned away from him, feeling his big, broad swordhand against the back of his head, gentle, and his eyes glowed gold and they were both put away and done up, and Arthur’s hand flexed, and Merlin rose until they were standing eye to eye, and Arthur nodded once, and that was that.

 


End file.
